Stages of Longing
by Truskawkowy Elf z Mongolii
Summary: This will be a series of one-shots about Ecthelion and his life after being re-embodied in Aman. The ship is Glorfindel/Ecthelion. And this will be mostly angst. Rating will change with chapters. Every review will be a great help, thank you. Enjoy!


**This will be a series of one-shots about Ecthelion and his life after being re-embodied in Aman.**

**The ship is Glorfindel/Ecthelion.**

**And this will be mostly angst. Rating will change with chapters.**

**Please, it will take 5 minutes of your time to leave some review and for me it will be priceless help!**

**Enjoy!**

He opened his eyes when the Sun touched his face. He didn't bother to move at first, yet again letting himself wonder what would be the point. He could get up and spend another day on trying to quiet his mind and heart by many different means. Or he could just lay in his bed until the night fell over Tirion again.

At last, he moved. Be it a habit or maybe even a sense of duty, though long lost, but something made him move every morning. Quietly, he dressed. And made himself a breakfast. Still mindlessly, he cleaned up after it.

What now? A book, like yesterday? He hadn't finished it. Not that he had the slightest interest of what it was about. It was yet another he made himself read so the thoughts wouldn't get to him. But if not a book, then maybe some work. He could go to the forge or to the gardens. He could go anywhere, actually. Not that he was needed anywhere. Or wanted, for that matter. He was a _Lord _Ecthelion. His _servants_ here still felt strange when he wanted to work with them.

A book then. But where was it? He looked around his kitchen but it was nowhere to be seen. Silently, he moved to the living room, his eyes searching it as well. Oh, there it was. He walked over to the sofa and picked it up. For a moment he considered staying at home but decided it wouldn't be wise. He had to be seen so that others wouldn't worry themselves over him.

He left the house and closed the door behind him, book in his hand. Where now, his mind asked dully. Through the city probably, so the whole leaving-the-house thing made any sense. He started walking right off, thinking of some destination. He moved the corners of his mouth up, raised his hand and bowed his head when passing someone he knew. And another one. He turned left after a few streets, deciding to go to the lake. He knew it would be quiet there.

The road passed a main square and so he had to move his lips and bow his head many times as well as say the polite greetings. He made his voice soft and calm, giving it a hint of content. The corners of his mouth worked hard, up and down, more up, slightly less, just to fit the right emotion.

Finally, he reached the small pond, hidden between the city walls and the forest. There his mouth could rest finally, returning to its normal state and making his face expressionless. He sat on the grass and opened his book. His eyes quickly found the last paragraph he read yesterday.

_"…of the origins of Ungoliant very little is known. It's hard to decide whether she was a Maia. If compared to the Maiar of fire, who became Balrogs later, she appears to be much stronger and vicious than they ever became. It leaves the place for the dispute of course, if these are the factors we can choose to determine her origins, but I myself turn to the other theory. Her Maian origins are too hard to trace and her powers way beyond those of even the most powerful of them. Therefore my hypothesis would be that Ungoliant was, at first, one of the Ainur. However blasphemous it might sound…." _

It was cold and dark when he raised his eyes from the text. The water was still and so was the starry sky over him and it was quiet with only the far sounds of someone galloping home from the forest. He closed his reading and stood up, his muscles aching badly from remaining too long in the same position. He didn't pay much attention to this though. He turned back from the lake and walked home.

Only three times his lips had to do their trick before he reached his house and closed the door behind him. He left the book in the same place he found it in the morning and proceeded to the kitchen. As mindlessly as he did with the breakfast, he now prepared a small dinner. He sat by the table and looked down at his food.

And then he felt them. Thoughts, gathering in his mind, pushing on his consciousness, trying to break the walls he was tending to today. His throat clenched and he swallowed uneasily, gripping the side of the table. He shut his eyes and grit his teeth. Slowly, he managed to control himself and clear his mind. Only then he took a breath and opened his eyes again. Calming himself with another breath, he reached for the fork and ate his dinner.

The moment of weakness was gone. He returned to his rituals, cleaning the kitchen, then going to the bathroom to wash himself. He changed before slipping into bed. And when in it, he laid on his back with his eyes open.

He stared blankly into the ceiling above him. He didn't move at all apart from the slow raising and falling of his chest as he breathed. This was the only sign indicating that he was still alive.

And it was a lie.

There was hardly anything alive left in him. His body was remade and his spirit put back in it. But it wasn't enough for him to live. He was existing, yes, each day passing around him as he made his way through it. His mind kept him usable, kept this lie of life realistic enough for others to believe. He remembered how to eat and read. He knew how to smile and greet and talk. But he did none of this. And it was only visible in his eyes which expression never changed.

There was no expression in them. Just like him, they were long dead.


End file.
